Mirror Image
by tia8206
Summary: Missing pieces or flipped scenes from "The Image of You I Create" in Jack's POV. You should probably read the other story first if you haven't yet.
1. Nametags

**Makealist and Eyeon, I sort of hate you and your sneaky, sneaky enabling ways right now.**

**Everyone else: They've been requesting pieces of Jack's POV for "The Image of You I Create." Although there is NO WAY I'm duplicating the entire story, I've decided to toss out a few here and there.**

**So, here we go. Please leave a review if you want more of these. I need encouragement to be enabled. Or, I need enabling to be encouraged. Either way.**

* * *

**UCLA, Late Spring 1989**

Jack is running late.

If there wasn't some undergraduate girl who'd lived in a Haitian orphanage until she was seven - only to be adopted by Texans, get into UCLA and earn a bang-up GPA in her first year - now depending on _Jack_, there is no way in _hell_ he'd be standing in this elevator right now.

He punches the button for the fourth floor, waits for the doors to close. They don't close. _Come on. Come on, come on, come on_, he chants silently. He punches the button again. Stabs at it, really. Then again. Again again again. Finally the doors wheeeeze close, taking their sweet time. _It's not like some of us don't have places to go. _He should have taken the stairs, but it's a million degrees outside, he's wearing a sport coat and already sweating.

Ding. Second floor. Jesus, this elevator is taking forever. He takes a sip of his dwindling coffee. Should have gotten iced coffee, but it would have taken longer, no time for that. He jiggles his foot. He hopes he knows exactly what he's supposed to tell Gemma Coutu about succeeding in med school, because right now he's not sure he has a clue. His grades are great, but he never sleeps and he never gets anything done in the course of his regular life. His gas tank's on E; his laundry's overflowing.

When he'd signed up for the mentoring program, he'd thought at least he'd be doing a good thing, something that would be worthy of his microscopically limited time. Especially once he found out his match. Of course, that's until Amanda Harris snarked to him that the real point of the program was to retain as many undergrads as possible when it came time to them choosing a (very expensive) med school.

Like they'd really get to choose, ha. Most of the people Jack knew had probably applied to a dozen schools, gotten in to two or three. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot of choosing. Lack of choosing pretty much sums up most of Jack's life so far - hell, it sums up his _day_. He'd spent it helping Mom clean out Grandma Connolly's house. His parents had decided to move her out from Chicago five years ago because she couldn't deal with the winters anymore; of course, that meant the aunts were absolved from all the dirty work, and now that his grandmother's gone and the family's dispersed after the funeral, there's a whole house's worth of stuff to sort through. The clothes are easy; his mother hems and haws over the jewelry, figuring out what to send her sisters, Jack's cousin Jessie, what to keep, what to hold onto in case she has her own granddaughter someday. (No pressure there.)

Ding. Third floor. The furniture - Jack called the Salvation Army. He's determined to get through it all before Dad's back from Australia. No need to bring him into this, set him up to think they need him for something. This is ridiculous. Next time he's taking the stairs. Fidget, fidget, fidget.

Jack grimaces at the last sour sip of his lukewarm coffee, hurls the cup into the garbage once the elevator doors breeze open on the fourth floor. Up all last night studying, finals in a couple weeks, this girl better appreciate this. He glances at his watch, picks up the speed as he rounds the corner; he's even later now.

A tall blond girl is at the front table filling out her nametag. Jack glances deeper into the room and relaxes, realizing this is more casual than he'd expected. Late isn't going to count here.

So he slides another one of those stickers across the table toward himself, trying not to get in the girl's way, but he sees her eyes move over to him. He smiles at her politely, hoping she knows he's not trying to rush her or crowd her out. "You'd think with the tuition rates what they are, they could find another marker somewhere," he says, and before he can help himself, he winks at her.

When has he ever winked at someone before? That's not exactly the kind of thing he'd normally do - it's just that she has the most ridiculously blue eyes he thinks he's ever seen, and she also looks incredibly shy, biting at her lip.

She must be one of the freshmen; although it's true he doesn't know all the med students in the mentor program, this girl just looks too young, too timid. She's beautiful though, wide-lipped, with quirkily arching eyebrows, long curls halfway down her back. Pale skin so uncommon here in L.A. - she must spend too much time inside studying, something Jack can obviously relate to.

She pauses, turns up from the table to look at him silently, like she's evaluating him. _We don't have time for this_, he wants to blurt out, because if this is all so casual, he can go find his mentee, chat briefly and then get back to the mountain of work he didn't get to this morning.

The girl seems to understand, then, flashes him a sideways smile full of awkward apology, and bends back down to her nametag-in-progress. And yeah, he doesn't have time for this. But he's intrigued, she is intriguing him. L.A. has no shortage of beautiful girls, but this one doesn't seem to notice it, seems so out of place in her own skin, and he wonders how someone like her is supposed to be a doctor when she looks like she could fall apart at any second. He almost wants to protect her, and he doesn't know why. Or from what.

As soon as she's done, she holds out the Sharpie to him, and here's the weirdest thing of all: a strange little jolt in his fingertips when he makes contact with her. It makes him think of strange things, a dilapidated aquarium, angry red welts across white skin, a woman shakily bending down to pick an aloe leaf.

Jesus Christ, he really needs to start getting more sleep. No more "studying" at the bar, forget it. Bad idea.

She's done with her nametag, obviously, but she's still standing there, frozen in place. Quite possibly, she needs to start getting more sleep too.

Someone should probably say something. Jack. He'll do it. He can do it. "I'm guessing you're one of the undergrads?"

"Yeah," she says, tilting her head slightly to read his name as he peels the sticker off the wax paper and applies it just under his jacket pocket. She flushes.

He gestures to the nametag. "Jack Shephard," he says, extending a hand.

"Juliet Carlson," she says, and grasps his hand. Again, that stupid little jolt, but he ignores it this time.

"Nice to meet you." Now what? Oh right, mentor program. He's glad this girl isn't his mentee. She's too fragile; they would never work well together. "You know where I could find a Gemma Coutu? She's gonna be my mentee for next year."

Juliet shifts uncomfortably. "She's... She's actually sick. She... couldn't make it."

Jack's flooded with annoyance and relief. He's pissed he even bothered to come. Happy because now he can just go. Except will it look irresponsible to Gareth, the program director, if he just cuts out early? Shit? "Guess I just get to kick back and relax here, then?" He grins again in spite of himself (he doesn't care how out of her element she looks; this girl is gorgeous; _fuck_) before reaching back to the desk, scrawling a phone number on one of those nametags. "Here. If you see her, give her my number. If there's anything she wants to talk about for next semester, tell her to call me." Yeah, sure.

Juliet takes his number and pauses again before she unzips her handbag and slips his number inside. Something must be wrong with the zipper though, because she struggles to close her bag after that, and suddenly he's flooded with an urge to protect her from her own embarrassment.

"You find your mentor yet?"

Juliet lets go of the zipper, leaving the bag open. "No, I just got here too."

Stupid. Of course she just got here too. But Jack spots the program director through the crowd. He can sort this out, take one thing out of her hands. "Hey, Gareth," Jack calls. "This is Juliet - you know who's got her for fall?"

"Yeah, Amanda - "

Amanda looks up. She's not Jack's favorite person, too uptight, kind of a bitch, but she's a damn good student. Will probably be a good mentor. One of those annoyingly perfect people, never late, never frantic to get from place to place. Her car is probably immaculate.

Juliet flashes an appreciative grin at him before heading over to Amanda. Juliet's got his number now. Gareth looks disracted. Jack takes this as his cue to go.

* * *

Jack's just about ready to call a cab and come back to his car whenever it decides to stop being hotter than a tropical island out here. Fucking flat tire, because of course, of course, and Gary is supposed to be coming to help him (although he'd laughed for about five minutes when Jack had been forced to admit he didn't know how to change a tire).

He sees the shape of her before her face comes into view, the sun too bright right now, hot and hazy. "Hey," he says with surprise. "How was the end of the reception?"

"Awesome," she says dryly, and he chuckles.

"I thought I could escape early since my mentee wasn't there. Did I get caught?"

"Only because you just told me."

"My, uh - " He gestures to the car behind him. "I have a flat. Just waiting for a friend to come help me out."

Her forehead furrows. "Didn't your father ever teach you how to change a tire?"

Does she have some kind of window into his problems? He forces out half a laugh, hopes it doesn't sound too bitter. "No, my father taught me how to drink."

She bites her lip, poorly hiding a small smile. "Well, at least it's something. Do you have a spare?"

"In the trunk."

Juliet tilts her head. "Want me to show you how to change a tire?"

He rubs the back of his neck, squinting into the sun. "Nah, really, you're all dressed up, and - "

"It's a black dress. The dirt won't show."

What other ways can he decide to feel totally emasculated right now?

She just raises an eyebrow. "There's a payphone on the corner. See if you can catch your friend before he leaves. Then take off your jacket, roll up your sleeves and I can tell you what to do," she offers quietly.

Afterward he wipes his hands on a stack of tissues from the glovebox. So this awkward, shy girl is quietly competent. And she got him to do something he didn't want to do. Without being bossy, or demanding, or in any other way that Jack's used to seeing or being. He's a little bit fascinated by all this. "You, ah... You didn't have to do that. Thank you."

"I'm glad I could help. She turns to go, but he doesn't want her to.

"Wait. Could I, uh... Are you doing anything right now?"

She shakes her head.

"Maybe you'd like to do for a drink? I sort of owe you." He flashes a grin at her.

Juliet flushes again. "I'm... I'm underage."

"Dinner, then. Come on, let me make it up to you."

She tucks a strand of curly hair behind her ear. "OK," she says finally, after far too long. "Thanks."

In the car, they keep the windows down until the air conditioning kicks in. He's embarrassed about the condition of his car, the styrofoam coffee cups rolling around on the floor, the crumpled-up papers. Juliet is probably the kind of person like Amanda, who would have a very clean car. "You must think I'm pretty stupid to not know how to change a tire until today, huh?" he says sheepishly.

She looks up at him, tilting her head. The gust from the A/C is blowing her hair around the side of her face. "I don't think you're stupid, Jack. I think you're stubborn."


	2. Grilled Cheese

_I never thought about love when I thought about home._

- The National, "Bloodbuzz Ohio"

* * *

He'd really only meant to invite her up for a drink.

Sure, Jack can't really say he's _disappointed_ about the twist the evening took, far from it. And definitely not while her face is pressed into his bare chest and they're both still catching their breath.

Is he supposed to feel guilty? Because he doesn't. If she hadn't wanted this... She would have stopped him, right? So why is he second-guessing himself? It's just that everything about Juliet turns him inside out, she's his polar opposite in so many ways but then there was just this strange familiarity between them all through their second time out together, this weird underlying... _something_.

Jack shifts slightly, trailing his fingers along her side. "I didn't invite you up here just to get you into bed," he tells her. "Just so you know."

Juliet lifts her head slightly, keeping the sheet in place. Her smile is awfully shy, considering what they'd been doing only a couple of minutes ago. His mind spools backward, remembering her gasping moans, the way her fingers had dug into the flesh of his arms. He wishes she'd let the sheet slip a little now, his eyes drifting over her smooth, pale skin. It's funny, because for some reason he'd imagined her having freckles there.

"I'm leaving for the summer in two days," she says, almost wistfully. Then there's this feeling he can't shake, like _it's not her who leaves, she's the one who gets left behind. _Except that doesn't make any sense. Maybe he's thinking of someone else? Jack reluctantly moves his eyes back up to her face again.

"I don't know what it is. You remind me of someone I..."

Her expression changes, becomes more guarded. He feels her body stiffen against his, and she rolls away slightly, pressing her head into the other pillow.

What did he do? Does she think he meant some other girl? "I didn't mean..." he tries, and peters out because he hadn't thought this through. Damn. _Damn._

But her expression softens some, those big blue eyes staring up at him. "It's OK." She just looks so _young_ here in his bed, so pale against his navy blue sheets, her hair curling around her bare shoulder.

Jack feels a surge of protection toward her again, wonders if he should have been more controlled earlier. It's just that she was laughing, she'd looked so _happy_, and he almost couldn't have helped himself when he pulled the drink from her hand and pressed his mouth against hers. "That, uh..." He rubs his forehead and he's already starting to regret asking this, it's just that he knew it had hurt her in the beginning, "that wasn't your first time or anything, was it?"

Juliet flushes, her eyes getting even bigger. "No." A self-conscious little chuckle slips out of her; it's adorable, the kind of thing he'd like to file away for long after she's probably run away screaming from him and his messed-up family.

"I didn't... I didn't think so, 'cause you, uh..." _Came_, is what he was about to say, but little alarm bells ring in his head just before that word slips out. Little alarm bells with an undercurrent of _Shut up, shut up,_ because she looks far too shy to talk about that sort of thing, at least right now. He skips over making any sort of decision on word choice with a shrug. "But I probably should have asked."

Juliet's expression has turned from shy to guarded. She's chewing on a corner of her lip. "Don't you think this is getting a little personal?"

So maybe he'd misread her after all. So much for a date, a fun night in bed, whatever other hopes he may or may not have had about _dating_ this beautiful shy girl, and he rolls over to look directly at her, propping his face up on his hand. "We just slept together, how impersonal did you want to keep this?"

Her expression shifts further, into something almost unreadable. Jack's wonders how she can do that, put on some kind of mask when most of the time he's known her, she's seemed fragile as china. But then she starts stuttering, and there's the Juliet he knows. "I don't - I don't - I didn't mean..."

This makes him feel better, like the universe still makes sense, like she's still awkward, still stammering, even though here she is, naked in his bed. He wants to sooth her, but he isn't quite sure how to do that yet. "Are you hungry?"

Juliet glances at the clock - like she needs permission to eat based on what time it is - and nods.

Jack finds his boxers and heads to the kitchen. Kitchen area, really; it's just a corner of his rundown studio apartment, part of his attempt to take as little money from his parents as possible. And he probably should have considered his food situation before saying anything, he thinks, but he leans down behind the island counter, locating a frying pan. "Grilled cheese OK? I really need to make a grocery run."

"Mm-hmm. Thank you."

She pulls on her shirt and underwear while he cooks, watching her as she tries to run her fingers through the huge knot at the back of her hair. Jack hides his smile.

Finally he brings their sandwiches over to the bed. They're a little squashier and meltier than he would have liked. Too bad he doesn't have some of those fancy toothpicks to hold them together or anything. Maybe he could have made her laugh again. "Want to eat this here?"

"As long as you don't mind crumbs in your sheets," she replies, meeting his eyes with unexpected mirth, and whatever tension was there between then is gone now. Jack bites into his sandwich and she bites into hers, and her lips are so pink and pretty that he reaches out to touch them after she swallows the first mouthful of sandwich.

The truth is, it's been a long long time since there was someone in his bed he wanted to stay.

And he wants Juliet to stay.

He leans over and kisses her again, and she tastes like grilled cheese and he thinks of greenish flickering lights, a staticky callbox, not for any particular reason, and he hopes that when he asks her to stay the night, she'll say yes.

* * *

Jack opens his eyes in the morning and Juliet's watching him intently, her forehead furrowed slightly. Again, like that brief moment last night, he has no clue what she's thinking. "Hey," she says softly, and her expression softens, the edges of her lips curling up, and she looks impossibly sweet and hopeful.

He's still waking up, his head pounding from one (or two, or three) too many drinks last night. But he takes her face as an invitation, so he reaches out for her and sure enough, she curls into his arms, relaxing against him. "Hi," he whispers back, into her hair. He tightens his arms around her. "What are you doing today?"

"Studying for my last final, remember?" she says softly. They're talking so quietly, it's like they're still sleeping.

"You should study here." _Don't leave._

"Yeah?" Her voice goes up toward the end of the word.

"Yeah. I can take you back, to get your books. A fresh change of clothes. But I have studying to do, too. Might as well do it together. One thing, though."

"What's that?" She twists around to meet his face.

"You'll have to make me breakfast this time." He grins at her. Fair deal, right?

But then the phone rings beside the bed, and... _shit._ He'd seen the blinking number 4! 4! 4! last night, had ignored it, just in case, and he's hesitating now. Except if he lets it go to the answering machine, Juliet will hear whatever message there is to be left, just as well as Jack will. "Lemme just..." He rolls over, picks up the phone. "Hello?"

A burst of static for a second, and then: "Jack?" His father. Of fucking course. "I need you to do something for me."...

Jack glances over at Juliet, whose face has gone expressionless again. "No, this really isn't a - "

"You do _not_ get to say this isn't a good time! I'm up here in the San Fernando Valley, no wallet, no keys!"

"Well, what do you want me to - "

"What do you _think_ I want you to do?" His voice quiets now, cajoling. "You want me to get your mother out of bed? You know how this would upset her, Jack. Do you want to upset her?"

"You've gotta..."

"I know; do you think I don't know? I'm going to get help. This won't happen again, son. And last month, well, you know, that was just... that was... And this was just a fluke."

_Last month, when I picked you up from the drunk tank, and you're just lucky they didn't press charges? That was just a fluke, too? _"No, I told you that was the last - "

"This is it, son. But really, we don't want to get your mother involved, do we? She'll never understand. Not like you do."

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jack turns away slightly so Juliet can't see his grimace. "Well, I don't..."

"Please, son." Dad's voice is impossibly soft now. "I'm asking you for a favor."

"OK. What's the address?" Jack roots through the end table for a pen and scribbles an abbreviated address onto his left hand. "Fine." He hangs up through his father's expressions of thanks, and exhales heavily. He waits a long moment before turning to face her. "My dad's gotten into a jam. I need to go pick him up."

She nods wordlessly.

"I'll drop you off on my way to get him. I'm sorry. I can't... I can't..." There's a lump in his throat he can't seem to get rid of.

Juliet puts a hand on his arm, and her eyes look very, very blue in this light. "Jack, it's OK. It's not a problem."

He drops her off outside her dorm, and goes off to sort out another one of his father's messes.

* * *

It's pretty much a straight shot up the 5 into the Valley, but once he's in the suburbs he can't make sense of anything, getting turned around on look-alike suburban streets with too-similar names. Jack almost has to stop to ask for directions, but finally he finds the right street, the right house, 423, at the end of a cul-de-sac. And there's his father, sitting right out on the fucking _curb_ like trash in white tennis shoes, his jacket draped over his shoulder.

_I am not even going to ask, _Jack promises himself.

Dad's sweating in the heat and he slams the door a little too hard. "Took you long enough," he mutters under his breath.

"I am never doing this again," Jack warns him, pulling away from the curb.

He wipes his forehead. "Of course you're not, Jack."


	3. But Only Maybe

_Hold ourselves together with our arms around the stereo for hours_  
_while it sings to itself or whatever it does_  
_when it sings to itself of its long-lost loves_.  
_I'm getting tired, I'm forgetting why._

- The National, "Apartment Story"

* * *

**Spring 1990**

Juliet's eyes are a clear, vacant blue in this light as she rolls the spoon over her tongue. "Where..." Jack begins - she's here, but she's also gone - "_are_ you?"

She pulls the from her mouth to smile at him, a small and close-lipped smile. Tight. Her eyes refocus, on him. "In bed, with you." Without bending down, she dips the spoon back into the ice cream carton, holds out to him a melting mouthful. The edges of her mouth turn up a little bit more.

He leans forward and takes the bite, but makes sure to graze her bare knee with his lips before pulling away. If she wasn't paying attention before, maybe she will now. She shivers a little.

"I was just thinking," he says, and the truth is, he hasn't _just_ been thinking this. He's been trying to formulate the right combination of words for at least two days. "Stay here this summer. Stay with me."

She pauses, the hinted smile fading.

This is his chance. He's started, so he keeps going. "You're always here. I want you here." He threads his fingers with hers. "It just makes sense." It _does_, is the thing.

But her forehead furrows. "You don't think this place is too small?"

Juliet's always here as it is, and it's never been too small before. They've never _needed_ more space between them. Anyway, he has it all figured out. "We'll make it work. Besides, you need to get a real job this summer. You know, my aunt Jeannie, the one who works for the box company? She's looking for summer temps."

"I like working at the grocery store," she says softly.

How could anyone possibly like that? He shakes his head. "I'll give Jeannie your number. It'll be better, you don't need to be making four dollars an hour, and - " He's cut off by the phone. Of course this had to happen right when he was doing this. And he could let it go to the machine, except then they'd both hear the message, and...

As Jack arches over her for the phone, Juliet slides underneath him, away from him, and tucks the lid over the ice cream carton. She slips from the bed, her warmth still in the sheets as Jack flops into the spot she'd just vacated. Juliet ambles toward the kitchenette, and Dad's voice is in Jack's ear now.

"So I take it you haven't come to your senses yet?" Dad's voice is low, purring almost.

"This isn't up for discussion."

"Surgery rotation at Columbia," he scoffs. "And how do you think that looks to my colleagues, that my own son didn't even apply to do it at St. Sebastian's? Just because you're afraid you won't measure up - "

"That's not why I'm doing this." It's entirely why he's doing this. Get out of his fucking father's shadow, and Jack doesn't even want to go into surgery so he doesn't see why he should suffer two months under his father's watchful eye, anyway. The only problem is leaving Juliet in the fall. She has to stay here this summer, she just has to.

His father snorts in disbelief. "Well, I'm sorry that you feel that way. Especially once you give up this oncology plan, you'll wish that you'd just started out on the right path from the start. You're not cut out for - "

And maybe surgery _is_ what he wants to do, but he'd never know it if he pursues it in California. "You know, this really isn't a good time."

His father lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "It never is."

Jack practically slams the phone down, staring at the pile of clothes on the raggedy brown carpet. He won't even let his parents pay his rent - why the hell would... Juliet's looking at him from the sink. Stockstill, like a nervous big-eyed rabbit, ears twitching in silence.

"Rotations," he gets out.

"Oh." Juliet looks back down into the sink, scrubbing at one of the glasses in there.

They're supposed to be happy, right? Even trapped inside this little box where all they do is fuck and study.

Jack rolls off the bed, picks up his boxers, jeans, T-shirt, balls up a handful of fabric in each fist. On the other side of the bathroom door he twists the lock. For no reason, really. It's not like she's going to ambush him while he's showering. And even if she did, so what?

He takes his sweet time, expecting for some reason to hear her try the doorknob. He's tired, gets more tired under the warm water. They'd been up late last night, at a party with some of her friends, and it's times like this that Jack thinks about exactly how much younger Juliet is than him. Her friends are... they're fine, but they're young. Naive and immature and loud. Not at all like Juliet herself. He'd ended up out back, alone with a bottle of whiskey for awhile. They'd taken a cab home, almost stumbling into the apartment, pushing each other down onto the sheets. The sex, at the foot of the bed, was almost angry. They'd gone back around lunchtime for his car before decamping to the bed again for less-angry sex. And ice cream.

At the mirror he wipes away the steam with the back of his hand. Dark circles under his eyes. He needs to shave, fills up his palm with shaving cream. She has to stay this summer. Maybe they're not exactly happy, but it's not the togetherness that makes them unhappy. It's just life. Right? It's not that they're trying to force a puzzle that doesn't fit.

Then again, every time she doesn't sleep here, there's the dreams. These awful dreams where she vanishes or gets left behind or sucked under the earth. There are explosions, on water, or the ground beneath their feet. Once she was a corpse, bloody, her long legs draped over some other man's arm. For some reason, her shoelaces were still tied perfectly, and what he remembered most from that dream was wondering how that was even possible, that she could have tied her shoes and then just _died_. In the dream he kept wondering, when she was tying them, how did she _not know_ she would never tie her shoes again? (He wasn't nearly so composed when he'd woken.)

And he never has to worry like that when she's in his bed. New York, he just has to go, but he couldn't stand the summer without her too. Seven months is just too long. They can't do seven months apart. If she still goes to Florida, he won't go to New York.

But this is his career, or it's going to be, or it's supposed to be. His life, but at this point, only maybe. His chance to explore the surgery rotation away from his father completely. Not even UCLA - still too close to him. And Juliet will visit. Jack will visit. Even if he needs to flip pizzas every spare moment to pay for plane tickets so at least he can sleep properly on some weekends.

It'll be fine, and they'll just have to fly all the time, and - he flinches, nicking into the skin on his cheek with the razor.

* * *

Juliet's asleep, curled up on the couch in sweatpants and a T-shirt, her biochem textbook lying open on her chest. Now. He has to tell her now, it's been too long and his face is still bleeding and he just needs to know that they're going to be OK no matter what. He eases onto the couch next to her, snaking an arm across her, his hand on her hip. "I think I'm going to New York this fall."

She jerks awake, his nervous rabbit. "What?" Confusion clouds her face. She blinks sleep from her eyes.

He's going to start talking and he's not going to stop until it's OK. "I'd applied for a rotation at Columbia. I didn't want to say anything in case it didn't pan out. I found out on Friday, it's a last-minute offer. But the catch is that I'd have to do it when I was scheduled for peds here. And the only way I can avoid falling behind is if I do peds in New York, too." _Please, please, say it's OK._ _I need this, but I need you too._

Her mouth opens a little, but no words slip out for a few moments. Then, finally: "You found out Friday? Who was that on the phone?"

He never lies to her. Not telling, that's different. "My father. He doesn't understand why I can't do the surgery rotation at St. Sebastian's."

Emotions are passing over her face - frustration, confusion, anger - but she still looks like she's waking up and then she reaches up, starts stroking his elbow. _Thank you, thank you._

It's harder, somehow now, to keep talking when she's doing that to his elbow. "It's first thing next semester. That's... If you don't stay here this summer, if you go to Florida, I... We wouldn't be together for seven months."

She rubs at her face_._ "Why... Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"I just found out on Friday," he repeats._ And now it's Sunday, I know, I know._

Juliet sits up on the couch, tucking her legs underneath. "New York?"

"You know I'll come see you whenever I can. And you'll come to me."

She nods, except she's growing distant again, like a retreating ship. As distant as when they were eating ice cream in bed. How does she do this? One second she's as transparent as glass and the next, any trace of that vanishes and it's like she's a different parson. "I think I'm going to go back to my room for awhile."

_What? No no no, we were just fine a second ago. Weren't we?_ "Juliet," and his voice is embarrassingly incredulous, pleading. She can't just leave (she always gets left behind in the dreams). How does she even do this to him? What is so _missing_ in his life that - ?

She's packing up her stuff, jamming books, dirty clothes into her backpack. He's at her back, as close as he can be. "Don't leave, Juliet. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I just didn't know what was going to happen, and I - "

"Jack. It's fine. I'm -"

"I'm sorry," he says, and by the way his voice goes up at the end, he know he was expecting to be able to say more, but -

Her face is still calm and expressionless. "Thank you. Please let me finish. I have a lot of studying to do, and maybe it's good if we both cool off a little. I haven't been back to my room in a couple of days."

What's he supposed to do now? "Don't tell me you really want to go back to Florida and make four dollars an hour this summer."

Her lips press into a smooth line. "I don't know what I want to do, Jack."

They stand there, facing each other, frozen like they're each holding a gun and trying to decide who's going to make a move first. But the phone rings again. Fine. Jack breaks the gaze first, lifts the receivers, and it's her sister.

Juliet looks surprised, irritated, and she takes the phone, turns away from him, her free hand resting on her backpack like she's about to bolt at any second, but Juliet's never been like that. She doesn't run.

(This is exhausting.) Jack walks to the kitchen area, pours himself a drink. Three in the afternoon, but it's the weekend. Screw it, he deserves just this one. He watches Juliet twist as she talks to Rachel in a low voice for a couple of minutes, and she sounds upset about something. That boyfriend beating up on her maybe, or drug problems, or - God, he hopes she gets help soon.

Juliet hangs up, turns to face up again. Her face is full of things he has no hope of understanding.

"What's your sister want?"

"It doesn't matter." She reaches down, pulls a tissue from the box on the coffee table, left over from last week when they'd shared a cold. Gesturing toward his face, Juliet hands him the tissue. "I'm gonna go now. Don't bleed to death."

She's going to run.


	4. Right

_ You might need me more than you think you will. _

- The National, "Brainy"

* * *

**November 1990, New York**

All around him, JFK Airport is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, a hive crammed full of travelers dispersing for their Thanksgivings, everyone shouldering bags and struggling to get the hell out of this dirty, cold, crowded city that somehow views itself as the center of the free world.

If he'd had his choice, he wouldn't be going at all, but he's been lucky enough that Columbia gives its students a five-day weekend, and Jack knows how antsy his mother's been with him back in New York, and and and... none of that changes the fact that he's standing at the end of a long, long line staring down a sign with a friendly holiday_ Flight 23 JFK Int'l-LAX Canceled_ message across it.

Jack really fucking hates flying.

The couple in front of him is agitated, arguing whether they can even get another flight before it's not worth going. The girlfriend still wants to try, and "We're not going to be able to find a turkey tonight," yadda yadda yadda.

He shifts from one foot to the next. It's just as well Angie left town yesterday; he couldn't imagine the two of them in her tiny little walkup on 11th Avenue, trying to defrost a softball-sized turkey from Gristede's.

It takes nearly an hour before he's up at the front, and it's clear the gate agent is just as aggravated at this point as every single person she's dealt with so far. She takes his ticket and boarding pass, heaving a heavy sigh. Keys something into her computer. Neither of them's said anything yet.

"What are the chances of - " he begins, and the gate agent just holds up her hand. Dammit, he didn't even really want to go, he didn't even want to wait on this line, can she _please_ just -

"Unfortunately, we don't have anything else for tonight or Wednesday. We can get you on a flight leaving at 12:04 p.m. Thursday. With the time change, you'll arrive in Los Angeles at 3:42."

"Thursday afternoon," he repeats in disbelief. That's awful. Or... no, no, that's good. _Great_, even. Totally plausible excuse for not going after all. _Jesus_. This is _fantastic_. He can get a pizza, watch football by himself all damn day if he wants. "Can you just cancel my ticket?"

He can feel himself relaxing, the tension in his shoulders dispersing. A perfectly relaxing and solitary five-day weekend unfurls in front of him.

* * *

"Mom, I have some bad news," he begins, trying to actually sound disappointed. He's already stretched out on the couch in sweatpants and a T-shirt. The TV's on, the volume low.

There's a long silence on her end. Did she not hear him? Is she waiting for him to keep speaking?

"...Mom?" he finally says.

"You're not coming, are you?"

"I wanted to," he lies. "They canceled my flight and everything else is booked until Thursday afternoon. It's just such a long way for that short of a time, so... so I figured I'd just stay here."

"I..." His mother begins. She sounds kind of nervous. _Oh, shit._ "Is everything OK? Grandpa?"

"No, no, he's fine, I..." Mom lets out a quick, heavy breath. "Is it yours?" she asks pointedly.

"Is... what mine?"

"I saw someone last week, and I thought maybe, maybe I shouldn't tell you, or you already knew and weren't telling me. I thought I would wait until you were here, you could pick up the pies and - "

"What are you talking about?" She _saw_ someone? What, like a shrink? Except what does that have to do with something being his? What does that have to do with pies? Speaking of pies (what native New Yorkers call pizza; he still isn't used to that), Jack glances at the clock. His pizza should be here any minute. _And what the hell is she even talking about?_

"I saw Juliet," his mother finally says, and just like that, he feels like the oxygen's been sucked out of his lunge. The walls of this tiny apartment seem to get even closer together. He forgets his impatience. Except there's a new form of it now: the impatience to stop talking about Juliet. Immediately.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"She's pregnant," his mother says, so matter-of-factly it's like she's telling him she ordered new patio furniture.

Jack presses his hands over his eyes. She got that serious about someone else _already?_ And... and she's _pregnant?_ That... doesn't even make any _sense_. The two of them had always been so careful. A pregnancy would have devastated her back then. And now she just, what, flipped head over heels for someone and - no, no, she's too young, it had to have been an accident, but why would she have kept it? She must really love this guy. Jesus. _Jesus_. She's pregnant enough that his mother could already tell? Juliet forgot about him that quickly? Jack struggles to breathe.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks again, only this time it's in a voice choked with tears. _You're over her,_ he reminds himself. _You're over her, you have Angie now, she's great, it's fine._

"Is it yours?"

"WHAT?" he bursts out. "No, no, of course it's not - what? Why would you think...?" Nonetheless, his heart seems to jump in his chest.

"She looked... well, she looked big. I don't know, six or seven or eight months? And she seemed... awfully embarrassed about it. So, I just wanted to know if you were keeping something from me."

"I don't - I don't - " he pants. "She never said... we haven't talked in... I haven't seen her since May." _Oh god. OH GOD. No. No no no no, please no._ He can't be a father. He can't. He has no idea how to be a father. He won't have a real job for another two years, and even then he'll make next to nothing, and he doesn't know how to be a father, he can't he can't he can't. He actually starts counting backward on his fingers. It's the end of November - _October, September, August..._

His intercom starts up its beeping. The pizza. _Fuck._

"Well, you've never been very forthcoming on what happened between you two. I would give her a call if I were you. I couldn't tell exactly how far along she was - trust me, I wanted to ask."

_Beep... beep... beep..._

_...July, June, May_ - no, this can't possibly be happening. But no, she could only be six months, she could have met someone in Arizona, the way she described it, with all those parties, and Rachel has plenty of guy friends, what's that one guy's name, the one loudly reciting poetry that time they were on the phone, and...

_Beep... beep... beep..._

_Shit_, that is annoying. It sounds... weirdly familiar too. Like... no, he can't remember. It's gonna keep beeping, though, unless he hits the button. "Hang on, Mom."

Jack presses the button. "Johnny's," comes an impatient voice.

"Sorry, I didn't order a pizza," he replies, then yanks his hand away from the panel, cutting off further discussion.

"What was all that about?" his mother asks.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut. "Nothing." Does he even _have_ Juliet's new number? No, no, of course he doesn't. See, he can't call her, no, if she wanted to get in touch with him, she could have called him. He'd been in his same L.A. apartment all last summer. Same phone number. She didn't want to talk to him. _It's not mine. It's not, it's not._ "I don't - I don't have her number," he croaks out.

"What, so that's it?" Acid creeps into his mother's voice. "You _don't_ get to run away from your problems, Jack. Just because you're in New York, just because _you_ think -"

Is this going to be another complaint about how he _owed_ it to his father to do his surgery rotation with him? Jack tries another tactic, his breathing still far too rapid. He tries to sound calm. "I'm sure she would have told me, if it was mine."

"Are you _really_ sure about that?"

"No, I - " Something dawns on him. And no, no, it's not a nice thought at all, but most parents - if they'd found out their son had _potentially_ gotten someone pregnant - wouldn't they want him to not get tied down? Leave well enough alone in a case like this?_ "Why_ are you telling me this? Why wouldn't you just let her live her life? Let her do whatever she wants to do?"

There's a long pause. "Because staying away is something your father would do," she finally says. "You're the one who's supposed to make things right."

* * *

Near midnight he ties on his running shoes, runs down W. 108th, hooks a right on Broadway, panting past shuttered shoe stores and groceries, the occasional bar spilling over with drunk undergrads. The campus is dark, punctuated at regular intervals with lamplights. The stairs of the library aren't steep enough and there aren't nearly enough for what he needs tonight, but he starts up and down, up and down, and eventually he loses count, just like he'd hoped, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.

How is he possibly supposed to make things right?


	5. Figure It Out

_You said I came close_  
_ as anyone has come_  
_ to live underwater_  
_ for more than a month._  
_ You said it was not inside my heart, it was._  
_ You said it should tear a kid apart, it does._

- The National, "Anyone's Ghost"

* * *

**December 1990, ****Los Angeles**  


For the fourth day in a row, there's absolutely no sign of her. Maybe she quit. Maybe his mother was wrong, somehow.

Jack sits outside in his car with his too-strong bakery coffee made by a teenage employee. The windows rolled up; the day is oddly chilly for L.A., although considering he's coming from New York, where he needs a coat at this point... Wait a second, his whole life could be about to change and he's thinking about the fucking weather? (But no, it's not his, it's just not.)

What's he supposed to do now? He'd only bought a one-way plane ticket, not knowing what to expect. Maybe he should just consider the fact that He Valiantly Tried, and now he's cleared to go back to New York and consider the matter closed. And maybe that would be the coward's way out, but really (he keeps telling himself), she definitely would have called him if it was his baby. Right?

A shadow flickers in his peripheral vision; he snaps his head up, expecting... what? A cop to tell him he needs to feed the meter if he keeps sitting here?

It's Juliet standing there, her fingers pressed to the glass of the passenger-side window. She's surrounded by sunlight, her face utterly expressionless except for the way her eyebrows are ever-so-slightly crimping together. The kind of thing that would probably go unnoticed by someone who didn't know her. Or someone who didn't _used to_ know her.

He realizes in that instant how much he's missed her, and how much he's tried to deny that fact, even though in his dreams sometimes she has green eyes and freckles, but who knows what that's supposed to be about, and now she's probably having someone else's baby and Jack feels a little bit like throwing up. Just because he doesn't want it to be his, doesn't mean he wants it to be anyone else's.

Without thinking about it too much, he lurches out of the car, coming around the back of it. As he rounds the corner, he gets his first full view of her, and she's wearing an army-green cotton dress over jeans, and a plaid flannel shirt over all of that, and battered hiking boots, and she looks about as _un-_Juliet as he's ever seen her. And then, of course, there's the belly, and god, he'd have to say his mother was right, six or seven or eight _(please, please no)_ months along and this is not really happening.

Juliet meets his eyes, daring him to say something.

His mouth feels like it's full of sand. "My... my mother said she saw you. She said... she said that you were..." He can't finish his sentence, his heart pounding.

She nods. "I put in her pie order."

_O...K?_ That wasn't exactly a way to move the conversation along. So he guesses he's going to have to be the one to bring it up. "Uh... Congratulations."

Juliet actually flinches, he can see it, and her face turns from expressionless to surprised, then confused... then, then her face hardens, twists into a scowl, her mouth dropping open a little. Mentally Jack is kicking himself; that was obviously the worst thing he could have said but what was he _supposed_ to say, really? She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Yeah, you, too," she snaps.

His entire body floods with fear. _No, no, no,_ he can't do this but he has to, how is he supposed to do this? Except Juliet's been doing it on her own, and that's not fair, but what is? "Why didn't you call me?" he gets out, when every cell in his body is screaming at him to dive back into his car and floor it.

Fury changes to, what, sadness? "I didn't want to put this on you. It wasn't fair."

"It's not - it's not fair to you either." Jack feels like he's actually about to _cry_, goddammit, and he has to blinks several times to get control of himself.

"But it was my decision to..._" _She trails off. (To keep the baby? Why? Why did she? But it would be rude to ask.) "Why did you come here, Jack?"

"My mom said... said she saw you," he repeats numbly.

She crosses her arms up high, over the top of her belly. His eyes flicker back down to it for a second; it's almost impossible to believe there's an actual baby in there, because this can't possibly be real.

"You already said that. That's not what I asked." Her voice is cool and even.

What's he supposed to say? "I... I was supposed to come in for Thanksgiving. My... my flight got cancelled and I couldn't get another one in time. When I called to say I couldn't make it, that's when she told me. She said... well, she wanted to know if..." If what? How is he possibly supposed to explain why he's here? How is he supposed to tell her that he wants to help, when really he is so impossibly afraid he can barely speak? He could ruin this kid's life; he knows it. "...If it was mine. I... I came out here after that."

Her arms are still crossed. "So now you know."

"Juliet, I - " He _what? _He'd never quite pictured this moment. But all the same, he somehow knew he would have never imagined her to be so hostile.

"What do you want, Jack?" Juliet is very calm and very still again. But he knows her, he knows what's underneath. (Doesn't he?)

"I... I guess I don't get to say now isn't the best time for a baby, huh?" Wait, wait, _why_ did be say that? That wasn't funny at all. He tries to backpedal. "I guess I want to be there for you."

"You _guess?_" she bursts out. "Well, shockingly enough, this isn't exactly a good time for me,_ either."_ Tears prick into her eyes. "You know, I thought I was helping you. I thought I was doing the right thing. Rachel tells me I've been playing a martyr. Told me I should tell you. And then, here I am asking _you_ what _you_ want. But no one ever asks what it is that _I_ want. You want to _be there _for me? I'm sorry, when has that _ever_ been the case? You know, a lot of the time I was never sure if you wanted me for me, or if you just needed _someone_ there. Anyone."

Once the words are out of her mouth, Jack realizes she could have been talking about either one of them. "I came back here because I care, Juliet. I came back here because I was trying to help you."

She starts shaking her head rapidly. The tears in her eyes make them look much less blue, much paler. "I didn't need help! I've been fine for seven months. You came back here for _you!_ At least do me the courtesy of telling me why."

Jack's mind rewinds to his mother on the phone. "I came back because I was supposed to."

"Supposed to do what?"

"I don't know yet," he admits.

"Well, you better figure it out. I've got to get back to work." She spins around, begins her retreat back to the bakery.

He calls out to her without thinking. "Wait! How am I supposed to get in touch with you?"

Juliet turns to face him again, hesitating. Her face is mottled; there's a tear track on her left cheek. She wipes her face with the inside of her wrist. "Do you have a pen?"

He yanks open the passenger-side door of his car, shuffles through the glove box. He remembers how she'd written down her number on that Styrofoam coffee cup, that very first evening, the night she found him with the flat tire in that steamy L.A. heat. That moment and this one seem so far apart it's like they couldn't possibly have existed in the same reality.

Jack finds a notepad he'd forgotten he had in the glovebox, holding it out to her, and she comes back toward him, writing down her number hastily before straightening up. Her face is fuller now, and she gives him another long expressionless stare now that she's regained her composure. That makes one of them at least; Jack feels himself practically shaking.

"I'm moving on the 16th. So call me before then. Or that's it," she says simply.

* * *

His parents' house is quiet, and the weather has warmed somehow, so Jack changes into his swim trunks, heading out to the backyard pool. Maybe some time spent swimming laps can clear his head, he's thinking, but when he opens the French doors, his mother pokes her head around the side of a lounge chair.

Too late to hide.

"Well, there you are," she remarks, lowering her sunglasses for a second. "Come out here and keep me company."

Jack pauses for as long as he dares, finally closing the door behind him and easing down into the pool, resting his arms on the edge. "Nice day today."

His mother smirks. "Oh, cut the crap, honey. Any luck today?"

Luck? Is _that_ what he'd call it? Probably not. "Yeah. I saw her."

"And?" She sounds anxious now.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"It's, uh. It's mine."

Mom raises her eyebrows so high he can see them over the top edge of her sunglasses. "Well, god. _Shit_. Huh! Oh, Jack." Her voice turns sad. "I don't know what I expected, but..."

"I know."

"I didn't think I'd be a grandmother so soon," she says thoughtfully.

Oh crap. His parents, as grandparents? They're getting involved now? Jack's not even sure if _he_ will be able to avoid screwing up this kid. Add in his parents and -

"So, how'd it go?" Mom asks.

Is she trying to act supportive now? _Oh, cut the crap, Mom_, he doesn't say. "She's pretty mad at me, I think."

"Well, I'd imagine so. Hell, _I'm_ pretty mad at you. Didn't I have the birth control talk with you _years_ ago? And why didn't she call you?"

"She said she was trying to spare me." Even as the words leave his mouth, though, he wonders if it's true. Or Juliet was just trying to look like the bigger person. Maybe she's still angry that he cheated on her. On the list of stupid things he's done, that's probably somewhere near the top, misinterpreting her lack of an 'I love you' as a 'Since you feel that way and I don't, we should break up.' More newly on the list: knocking her up.

"She was trying to _spare_ you?" His mother breaks into his train of thought. "Either she's the most unselfish person ever, or she's lying to you."

"I know," he lies. "Can you, um... can you not tell Dad yet? I'll tell him, just... when the time is right."

"When's the baby due?"

Jack pauses. There was so much he should have asked her. Was it that last night in May? They'd been so drunk. Did they not use protection? He thought she was on the p - Wait, wait. In his mind's eye, he suddenly sees her pills in the trash, the night she'd gotten back from her sister's. _FUCK._ And then: _Whatever happened, happened._ It's done. They just have to get forward, now, somehow. "I don't know exactly," he answers, full aware of how ridiculous that fact is.

His mother sighs, shaking her head. "Well, the time better be right very, very soon."

* * *

He waits until the next night to call Juliet, giving her time to calm down. Or so he hopes. Instead, he gets an answering machine. Twice. He doesn't leave a message either time. What's he supposed to say,_ Hey, it's Jack, sorry for getting you pregnant; let's talk?_

She does pick up the following night. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's... it's Jack."

A pause. "Hi."

"Listen, I'm..." He's what? She hates him. _Start with an apology._ "I'm really sorry about the other day. I shouldn't have just shown up there like that. And I'm sorry I... I'm sorry I acted like that. I was just..."_ ... sort of hoping it was someone else's baby?_

"Yeah," she mutters.

"It was just, I was surprised."

"OK."

"I'd like to..." He'd like to what? He realizes he has no plan for anything just yet, except that he'd called his adviser at Columbia and told him the situation. Called his adviser at UCLA, asking how he could make up the rest of his pediatric rotation later, in California. Called his friend Joey in New York, told him he was mailing his keys to him, and could be please ship the rest of his stuff to LA, turn in the keys to his landlord? Only person he hasn't been honest with yet is Angie. Oh, and his father. "Could I come see you?"

"You're still in L.A.?"

"I... I'm having someone send my stuff from New York. I'll make up the rest of the rotation some other time. Find some way to do it here."

"Jack..."

"It's not right, Juliet. For me to just..." He trails off, his heart sinking. "I'm going to stay here. That's what's important now." He can do this, right? Be a dad? Be a _good_ dad? Somehow? At least he can try to pretend.

"You don't have to - "

"I want to. Can I come see you? Some time when it's good for you?"

"You want to come now?"

This surprises him. "Now?"

"Sure. Dykstra, 208."

He knows that dorm, a huge monolith of a building reminiscent of a Howard Johnson's motel. So, OK, sure, get this over with, cut through the tension and the awkwardness and, and start over on a new foot and - "I'll be there in 20 minutes."

* * *

Juliet comes to get him from the lobby, wordlessly leading him down the first-floor hallway, opening one side of a double door to reveal a lackluster but empty lounge room. He feels a little ashamed she's not even taking him up to her room. It's not like he'd _try_ anything, for god's sake.

Instead they sit on opposite couches, scratchy blue upholstery against the palms of his hands. The floor is scratched; there's a battered-looking piano next to a large potted plant in the far corner of the room. A clunky, scratched coffee table between them. She looks at him, waiting.

"I just... I'm sorry again, Juliet. I'm sorry for the other day, and I'm sorry you had to go through all that on your own." When he says it, it suddenly becomes true, like an indistinct dream coming real. She must have been horrified, devastated in the beginning.

She nods, looking down at her hands, her hair falling in front of her face.

"I'd like to... be involved, somehow, if you'll let me. What... what is it that _you_ want?" He knows she _wanted_ him to ask; is that too transparent? He wonders again why she'd decided to keep the baby.

Juliet doesn't look up. "I want to be a good mother," she says to the floor. "And I want to be a good doctor, one day."

She didn't mention where she sees Jack in all of this, so he asks. "What about me?"

Slowly, she moves her eyes back to his. "If you do this - if you're involved... That means you don't get to do this partway, OK? I know what it's like to grow up with a father who's not all that interested. And I know what it's like to grow up not ever seeing my _real_ father. Or - or my biological father. Or whatever. I never even met him. But it was harder to be ignored by the one who was there. I'd rather you're not there at _all_, than to be around sometimes but not really care."

The entire time, he's nodding. "I told you, Juliet, that's why I'm not going back to New York. We're going to make it work. However... however that happens. I'll help support the baby. I'll be there." That all sounds so good. Genuine, even. Because it is. Right?

She tilts her head to the right side, like she's silently evaluating him. "I don't want you to resent me, or the baby, because you get behind on your rotations."

Jack shakes his head, determined. No, no, he's not going to. Because he's going to be be a father, and he's going to be a _good_ father. He just _is._ At least he has the perfect example of how _not_ to be. "You know, my dad, he always put his work in front of his family. I don't want to be like that. I'm not going to be."

Juliet nods a little, not really looking happy, or sad. Or angry anymore, so at least there's that. "OK."

"When's it due?"

"He," she says, and Jack has no idea what she's talking about, thinks he must be mishearing her.

"What?"

"He," she repeats. It's a boy, Jack. February 5th."

"It's a boy?" He knows he must sound a bit dumbfounded, but she nods, and this just became a whole hell of a lot more real for him. He'd thought about Juliet, he'd thought about himself, but he'd only thought about this baby in some abstract way, the prominent swell under her clothes, the ticking time bomb of responsibility. But it's real, it's really really real, they've having a son and now he _has_ to be a good father, because this is going to be a _real person _someday._  
_

There's a lump in his throat; he feels tears behind his eyes, trying to imagine taking his son to a baseball game someday, bandaging scraped knees, teaching him how to drive. "We're having a boy," he gets out.

Juliet looks like she's hesitating about something she wants to say. "Jack..." Suddenly she sounds like every girl who's ever broken up with him.

"Do you - I mean, do you... do you _want_ me around?"

"I'm not going to hold your hand for this. I'm... I have enough to worry about right now. If you say you're going to be involved, I'm going to try to trust you. But me, I'm just trying to take things one day at a time."

"Are you feeling OK? Has everything been... I mean, are you all right?"

She nods. "Just tired, these days. Swollen feet. A lot of false contractions."

Jack frowns. False contractions? Already? "February 5th - how many weeks are you? Should you still be working?"

"Thirty-one." She shrugs. "My last day at the bakery is Monday. I have a work-study job at the library, too, but I can sit there."

The questions are coming out all at once, now. There's so much he doesn't know yet, so much they need to do - only nine weeks, and he just found out and he's going to have to ask his parents for money. "Are you OK until - do you need things for the baby? We can go shopping, if...? Do you have health ins... do you have a car? And you're moving, right? You can't stay here, can you? Where are you going?"

Her eyes get bigger, and he can't tell is she's overwhelmed or annoyed, but she only answers his last question. "Family housing."

"You need help?"

"Are you offering to help me move?" she asks dryly.

He'd meant in the larger scheme of things, but... "If you need help, I'm offering it. So, yeah."

"...OK," she says slowly.

But Jack doesn't want to talk about moving, Jack wants to talk about the baby, and he's really OK in there? Does he kick a lot? Does it keep her awake at night? Are there ultrasound pictures? "Can I, um... when's your next doctor's appointment? Can I come?"

She averts her eyes. "Can we just... stick to the little things for now?"

His heart sinks a little, this is his kid too, but he tries to hide his disappointment. "Just the little things, then," he echoes.

"Thank you," she says simply.

* * *

**So, I hope you're all still enjoying this. I only got three reviews, I think, on the last installment of this, so I really hope I can hear from more of you this time around. You don't need to have an account to leave a review on my stories, and they really keep me motivated to keep going!**


	6. Thank You

_You coulda made a safer bet_  
_ but what you break is what you get._  
_ You wake up in the bed you make._  
_ I think you made a big mistake._

- The National, "Lucky You"

* * *

"Hey, you," she says, a little too cheerfully. "How's your grandfather?"

Jack grips the phone a little tighter. He is a lying piece of shit sometimes. A lot of the time, maybe, lately. "He, um... He's actually doing a lot better."

"Oh, good. You were so worried when you left, I thought..." Angie trails off.

Neither of them speak for a moment.

Finally she says, "So..."

His eyes move around his old bedroom, the room he grew up in, the posters he never bothered to take off the walls, the closet door dinged from countless games of wall ball. Just being in here takes his maturity down a few notches, and he looks down at his lap instead. "I actually... I'm not coming back to New York."

Angie's voice starts out alarmed, transitioning into confused. "What? Why? What about your rotations?"

"I guess I'm going to have to finish them another time." He can do this. He can. He swallows the lump in his throat, closing his eyes against threatening tears. There's still a part of him that wants to board a plane destined to crash onto a deserted island, get away from all of this as fast as he can. Or, no, not _that_ exactly, but... Jack forces himself to think about the facts he knows. February 5. A boy. That's... kind of it right now, but it's enough to reinforce the reality in his mind. He opens his eyes to the faded wallpaper. He hasn't lived here in six and a half years.

"You're not even coming back for your stuff?" Her voice turns suspicious. "If you wanted to break up with me, I mean, god, you can just _say_ so. I know you were only in town for a few months, I know what we had... it was for just a little while, but _Jesus_, I -"

"It's not that."

"Then what?" she snaps.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "There was this girl, last year - "

"Oh yeah, this sounds promising."

Jack ignores that. How is he even supposed to say this? He's trying to consider this practice for telling his father, and he can hardly get the words out. "I dated her last year, I don't know, I thought it was kind of serious, but... but, um, we broke up awhile before New York, and I saw her the other day, and she's - " Here, his stomach turns. (Here goes nothing.) "She's pregnant."

"Uh..."

"It's mine," he clarifies.

There's a long pause, exceptionally long. "Are you sure?"

Jack supposes, no, he _wouldn't_ be sure, except for the way Juliet looked at him: this mixture of desperation and fear and anger and... (hope?). "Yeah."

Another long pause. Jack hates this. He _doesn't_ want to break up with Angie. He likes her, she's kind of a smartass (kind of like Juliet, when Juliet was in the right kind of mood, anyway), but Angie liked to fill silences in ways Juliet never did, and frankly... frankly, he hates being alone. Surely she can understand that. It's just that there's no way he can rocket back to New York now, or _ever,_ really, and -

But he should have said something more. Anything, as it turns out. Because:

"Well, fuck you, too," Angie says, and hangs up the phone.

That went well.

* * *

He finds his father in the study (where else?). The ever-present bottle of MacCutcheon - the same one Jack and his friends used to sneak sips from - is gone from the console cabinet, replaced by a thin layer of dust and a few files.

Dad looks up in mild irritation from the books on his desk, or what Jack _thinks_ is mild irritation, before it's replaced by a small smile. "And to what do I owe this great honor?"

Is he supposed to sit too? The armchair is halfway across the room. Shouldn't they be fishing, or hiking, or at a ballgame, or at least in some neutral territory somewhere else in the house for this blessed announcement? Like in commercials for retirement funds, or something?

Jack remains standing. "I have some news."

Dad nods. "All right."

What's he supposed to say. _I'm going to be a father, and my only hope is that I don't end up like you? _"I ran into..." he tries, then stops to regroup. That's not technically true; his _mother_ ran into Juliet. Juliet wasn't even going to tell him. (How does she still think she's going to be able to do this on her own? _...Does_ she still think that? She's not that naive, is she?)

"I'm going to be a father," Jack finally says, like saying it makes it more true than this:_ I got someone pregnant._

Dad's eyebrows shoot up just about all the way to his hair. "Well! I take it congratulations are in order?"

Jack doesn't know what to say. Like it's a trap, like his father's just waiting to pounce. Unless... unless his father's legitimately not sure?

"Who's the lucky woman? This... Angie's her name, yes?" Dad looks amused. Resigned, but amused. and Jack's mouth turns to sawdust. Suddenly, he has the sinking suspicion that Mom's already told him everything. Everything. Dad's lack of surprise, lack of outward anger... He's just _goading_ Jack now, isn't he?

"Juliet," Jack finally says.

"The quiet, nervous one? The blonde? Isn't she a little young?"

"She's twenty."

He starts shaking his head now. "She's young. Oh Christ, Jack, haven't you ever heard of protection? I thought your mother had this talk with you years ago. And now what is she supposed to do?"

"I... I'm going to help her."

"And how are you going to do that?"

Is he asking for a primer on How to Be a Good Father and Not Fuck Up Your Offspring? Because Jack's pretty sure that although he hasn't yet read that one, he's way _more_ sure neither has his own father. _At least I have a CHANCE, asshole.  
_

Or does he mean financially? What's Jack supposed to _say_, exactly?

"Let me tell you what you're going to do - what we're _all_ going to do. Which is make this as easy on her as possible."

(Is this actual compassion?)

"If she runs into trouble," his father goes on, "what's the first thing she's going to do? Drop out of school. She drops out of school, you have both of them to support for the next 18 years. Hell, the next 22 when you figure in college. You'll have her calling you all the time, needing money for this or that, diapers and - " He waves a hand. "Trust me, you don't want that."

"I don't think she's going to be like that."

His father shakes his head again. "You have no idea, Jack. No idea. But if you're lucky...? Pretty girl like her? If you're lucky, she'll meet someone, settle down, and most of this will end up out of your hands."

"I don't - this is my kid, too. I _want_ to -" The anger is rising now, again, like it always does. _And Mom thinks you guys are gonna to get to play grandparents. _"How can you be so heartless?"

"You sound like you're ready for a playground fight," Dad observes, and Jack has to fight the urge to not curl his hands into fists. "I'm not heartless, not at all. I'm _pragmatic._ Are you prepared to support this blessed event?"

_What do you think? _"I'll manage," he lies. Maybe he should be the one to drop out. Wouldn't that be ironic.

Dad opens a desk drawer, starts shuffling around in there. Out comes a checkbook, a pen. Jack doesn't say anything. (He fucking hates himself right now.) His father writes out a check and slides it across the table. "Well, we'll help you manage until you're on your feet."

The problem with his father playing a hero? How he always manages to sound so gracious when he does it.

This is exactly what Jack needed, and he got it, so why does he feel like he lost? _Fuck._

* * *

Also: He can't believe he rented a fucking U-Haul.

Up in her room, she's got a small TV, her stereo, two large suitcases, one small, some baby gear, and... he counts... eight boxes.

He chuckles, now that he understands her confusion at the U-Haul's presence. It would have been only two carloads, probably, and what's left except to laugh at himself, really? She smiles back, weakly.

The room is tiny, her bed already stripped down, the shelves empty. Jack doesn't let his eyes rest too long on the bassinet or the yellow baby seat. A bouncy seat? Is that what it is? He'd snuck a peak at the sales circulars in this morning's papers.

On their trip up to her room, a girl at the mailboxes had stopped to stare at them. Juliet was slightly ahead of him, and he saw the tension in the set of her shoulder blades.

He's still wondering, now, if that's from the unwanted attention, or his mere presence. She still looks uncomfortable, like she doesn't want him to be here, averting her eyes.

"Um..." Juliet begins, and now she very much looks like the Juliet he'd first known, before he'd come back and she was angry and strong and cold. Now her face flushes, and she glances at him, her eyes big and nervous.

She steps over to her desk. "I, um... I thought maybe you'd like to see these," and she's holding out pictures out to him, and he realizes - he realizes - his mouth drops open a little as he takes the black-and-white images from her. A round little face. Hands, feet. "This is...?"

"Yeah."

"This is our baby," he says and he can barely get the words out, his eyes flooding. Angie's anger, his father's condescension, Juliet's previous hostility(?). Maybe none of that is so important right now. At least not right this second.

"Yeah," Juliet says quietly, staring down at her belly.

"Is it..." _He. He, he, he. Not it. He's a real thing, and he's a he._ "...Is he sucking his thumb in this one?"

Juliet steps forward, closer to Jack now than he thinks she's been this entire week. She squints down at the printout. "Mm-hm," she finally says.

Jack rubs his hand over his forehead, then looks back at Juliet, and she's meeting his eyes.

"This is the..." What's he even supposed to say? "This is the... most amazing thing I've ever seen."

But she shifts where she stands, pressing her lips together, looking away. A frown dents her forehead. "I... I know, Jack. Do you think we could just get started? I don't think it's going to take that long. I just - " She pauses, swallowing. "I just thought you should see."

He looks down at the pictures again for a long moment. "Thank you," he says finally. "Thank you."


	7. Hot Chocolate in LA

_I promised to leave if you ever went cold._  
_Then leave when I'm sleeping, you told me._  
_Put your spine in your back and your arms in your coat._  
_Don't hold on to me when there's nothing to hold._

- The National, "Cold Girl Fever"

* * *

He's been putting this off for four days now, but Mom's been getting increasingly impatient about her guest list for Christmas. And it's not like he can avoid her - he's stuck in his parents' house like an overgrown adolescent until his subletter finally leaves his own apartment.

This has all translated into a lot of late-night bar runs with Marc and those guys, and a lot of sleeping in, and a fair amount of hangovers, and also a fair amount of trying to avoid his parents. Dad's not exactly difficult to miss; when he's not at work he's in his den, or possibly at an AA meeting. (Of all the fucking things Jack never thought he'd see in his lifetime, Dad at an AA meeting would probably rank somewhere up near the level of "unicorn.")

Mom, though. She is _always_ home. A book club brunch last Sunday, but other than that she's been sitting at the center island, stinking up their newly renovated kitchen with cigarette smoke and going though cookbooks for Christmas day appetizers. And sales circulars for baby gear.  
Jesus.

The phone rings for long enough that Jack starts hoping maybe it'll go to her answering machine, but when Juliet picks up, she sounds like she's been laughing, and Jack relaxes. She's happy right now. That's good. That's a way in. Unless someone else is there with her, making her laugh? His mind spools back to Juliet opening a door, laughing, glancing over her shoulder, and when the hell was that?

He should probably say something. "Hey. It's Jack."

"Hey," she says, warmly. Or at least, a lot more warmly than she's sounded lately.

"I just..." Now what? Does he launch right into it? No, bad idea. "I just thought I'd call to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine, but someone's been punching me a lot this morning. And I think he likes music."

The... what? How could the baby like music? And here's big manly adult Jack, sitting on the old rug of his childhood bedroom, cracking cordless phone clutched in hand and hoping his mother can't overhear this conversation. "You're kidding."

"I just put headphones on my stomach and he went crazy."

"That's amazing." That he (he!) could have likes and dislikes, opinions already, and just the fact of this all, the realness that keeps crashing up against Jack like ocean waves, makes him feel like he should... well, like he should not be sitting on the floor of his childhood bedroom. He should have a career and a paycheck. He is NOT ready for this.

"Yeah," Juliet says softly.

But he can't back out now. Can he?

His parents are expecting him to invite her. Of course, he could always just tell them she declined. Hell, she'll probably decline as it is. But... she'd mentioned her father was angry with her, and whatever's going on with her sister doesn't sound so good. What about friends? Maybe. But what if she really has nowhere to go on Christmas? He couldn't live with that. "Listen, I wanted to see, um, what you were doing for Christmas."

There's a long pause, long enough that Jack braces himself for an angry retort, a _Why is this any of your business?_ Instead: "I'm not sure yet," she hedges.

"My parents wanted to invite you to Christmas, if you don't have other plans."

"Your parents?" She sounds skeptical.

_And me! And me! Because I'm not an asshole._ "Well. And me too. I mean - you know you're..." Jack trails off, then tries again. _Crap. Crap crap crap._ "You're more than welcome to..."

He trails off. Again.

She doesn't respond. Again.

He tries another tactic: "They just want what's best for... for you and the baby."

That's at least vaguely true, no matter their motivations. Mom is determined to "make things right," whatever the hell that's supposed to translate into. She'd started up about "that poor girl" and her "family situation" and "Isn't this a nice crib?" and "Look at the little bunnies on this."

Jack thinks probably the last thing Juliet would want is pity or pandering, or little bunnies on something, but then why does he think he still knows her so well?

And then there's that $3,000 check Dad had written for him, hardly twitching a facial muscle. Just another thing to lord over him, and he'd hated every cell in his body as he slid that folded piece of paper into his pocket, but what the hell was he supposed to do otherwise? His mother's not the only one who's been looking into the cost of some of this stuff, baby gear and decent childcare, and does Juliet even have health insurance? And she thinks she's going to afford all this with a work-study grant and a cashier job?

Maybe she does, but she's wrong, and she's got him backed into a corner whether she knows it or not.

"Can I let you know?" she finally says.

"That's fine." He's relieved by the affability in his own voice. "I can pick you up, of course. And bring you back. We have some relatives coming in from out of town, too, so it's not just going to be you and me and my parents. And my grandfather will be there. He's a good guy. If that changes your mind at all." He's babbling right now. But the best Christmases they have are always the ones with his mom's family. That should count for something, right? "Should be sort of a big, old-fashioned family Christmas thing. Too many cookies and the Carpenters' Christmas album."

"Ugly sweaters, too?"

He smiles in spite of himself. "Well, you never know." Might as well go for it. "Do you... what do you still need for the baby?"

"I um... I'm OK, Jack, really."

"Juliet, I told you I want to help."

"I... I still need a stroller." Her voice is full of hesitation, and anyway, unless she's had some kind of (very unlikely) baby store shopping spree since Jack helped her move last week, he knows she's lying when she says that's all she needs. Anyway, his parents have way more money than they even know what to do with. What the hell else would they use it for, another hot tub? It's probably not exactly fair that their grandson's stuff has all come from Goodwill so far.

But there he goes: their _grandson_. He imagines what kind of grandparents his parents would (will?) be, given the chance, though, and feels sweat creep up under his clothes. "Just a stroller?" he prompts, trying to ignore his clammy fear. How the hell is he supposed to shield this kid - his son! - from parents when he's taking their money?

"Jack."

"What would you say if I said we should go shopping?" he forces out, when part of him wants to blurt, _OK, then, bye!_

"That sounds awfully hypothetical."

What the hell does she want from him, anyway? _Nothing_, a rude little voice inside his head reminds him. _She didn't tell you about the baby for a reason. Or maybe a whole lot of reasons._ And so she's skeptical and sulky and he's not all that sure how much he can push her, but there has to be some way of convincing her he's going to stick around. (Why does he even _want_ to? What is his life going to be like from now on?)

"Am I allowed to tell you I'd like to take you shopping?"

"Yes. OK."

_Just work with me here. A little. Please?_ Any other guy in this situation would probably be running away as fast as he could. But Jack's not any other guy. Or at least, he hopes he's not. He can be a good father. Even if he has no clue in hell what that means right now. Right?

"OK? So I'd like to take you shopping?" he prompts. All right, step 1 of being a good father: Get things for the baby.

There's a bit of a pause, and when she finally speaks, he's not sure whether he hears a smile in her voice or not, but it's at least a possibility. "Thank you. Yes."

* * *

Step 1 doesn't go flawlessly - Jack eventually lets Juliet talk him out of a crib and high chair. "There's just not room for them now, and he'll be in the bassinet at least a couple of months."

She's making a perfectly logical point, but it frustrates him nonetheless. If she bought that other stuff at Goodwill to wrap her mind around the baby's impending arrival, shouldn't he get to do the same? Make it a little more real? Get as much as possible?

As they look at the changing tables, he can't help but notice her shyness as she asks the salesgirl if a certain model comes in white. To which the salesgirl - nametag: Monica - replies (to both of them, that's unmistakable), "Is this for your bedroom or the nursery?"

To which Juliet turns bright red.

"The bedroom," Jack answers, and hello idiot girl, the bedroom _is_ the nursery, and he feels a little pang of secondhand embarrassment for Juliet, who is diligently not looking at anyone else.

"That matches better? Usually people want the darker woods if it's going in their bedrooms."

"I just liked the white," Juliet says softly.

It's not in stock, but they arrange for one to be delivered next week, and they find a stroller she likes, and one of those strap-a-baby-to-your-chest things, which has a too-cute name Jack immediately forgets.

What else, what else? "What about those baby swings?" he asks. "I hear those can really calm them down."

Juliet turns to him, tilting her head. "Where did you hear that?"

"I've been asking around." _Sure, if "asking around" entails asking the one guy I know who has a baby._

Juliet bites her lip, trying to suppress a smile, and Jack feels a rush of pride, however undeserved. "You have?" She looks more like the girl he used to know, just now.

"There's a guy in my cohort who has a baby," he admits, not mentioning how utterly exhausted Jonathan looks most of the time. Or how, when Jack had told him about his own impending fatherhood, Jonathan had actually winced, sucking his teeth.

"Oh," Juliet says.

The salesgirl blinks on her smile again, starts talking about the models they carry, leading them over to a row of swings in colors from bright and cheery to pastel and cheery. They pick out a pale green and white swing that's on the smaller side, even though he points out another that has three different settings.

"Yeah, but this one has a chance of fitting in m... the living room," Juliet says, and he notices how she skirted over the "my" but wonders why.

"This one, I think we can even fit in the car," he replies, and speaking of that - "Oh! Car seat!"

Juliet nods. "The funny thing is, I'll probably only need it to get him home from the hospital."

"Well, what about when I have him?"

She freezes. "What?"

_You didn't think I was just going to disappear after today, did you?_ "I mean, aren't I... going to... have him, sometimes?"

The salesgirl shifts from one foot to another, looking confused and embarrassed. What's her... oh. Oh. She thought they were together, didn't she? Well, that would be the logical assumption. Shit. Juliet's bright red again.

"Could you give us a minute?" Juliet asks the salesgirl in a strained voice, and she leaves.

"He's my kid too, Juliet," Jack says before he knows he's going to. But it's the truth, and he's not even going to get a chance to contribute to his son's _name_. He'd asked her what she was considering, and she'd said Matthew, which made him think of Matt Lambertson, playground bully; and James, which made him think of... well, he's not sure, but something about that name had always carried around a sense of sorrow and guilt, and who even knows where that came from, but it doesn't exactly signify that's a name he'd like his son saddled with. And David, which he likes just fine, but it was last on her list, and -

What's she going to do? Yell at him? Storm out? Those were never really Juliet-type things to do before, but that's exactly it, that was _before_, and he doesn't know the new Juliet all that well. He's not even sure if he likes her, and he misses the old one, but then he's the one who turned her into this, isn't he?

Juliet's face is oddly calm, though, and she lets out a long, quiet breath. "I'm going to be breastfeeding, so... at least at first, we can't really be apart for that long." Only then does she raise her eyes at him.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you._ "We can talk about it some other time," he replies, not at all sure he even wants to bring it up again. Someone who could afford it would probably be able to take her to court for joint custody, but he's fairly certain that's one thing his father wouldn't give him the money for. And anyway: No. No no no, it's almost like it's _her_ baby, and she's maybe maybe going to share it with him, but how could the round belly under her shirt have anything to do with him?

But then he remembers what she'd told him this morning, about the way the baby liked music already, and how real that had made him seem only a few hours earlier.

"OK."

* * *

It takes three trips to get most of the stuff upstairs to her apartment, mainly because Jack won't let her carry anything. That can be one contribution to this mystery baby that's supposedly showing up in February.

"You want something to drink?" She asks as he drops the last of it, reaching for the remote and flipping on the TV, going past a football game and a news show to land on something in black and white.

"Water would be great, thanks. Hey, 'March of the Wooden Soldiers'," he realizes.

Juliet gets out a couple of glasses. "I always loved that movie. It would always be on - "

''The day after Thanksgiving," Jack supplies.

"Yes!" She smiles, a genuine smile like he hasn't seen from her in a long time, the apples of her cheeks swelling up. "And my dad and I would watch it every year while my mom and Rachel went shopping."

"There were a lot of years my grandfather would stay over on Thanksgiving. And we'd always watch it the next day. My mom would go shopping too, and my..." He trails off. _My dad was working, or hungover, or out of town, or who even knows?_

Juliet shifts where she stands. "I could make coffee, if you want," she says, seemingly uncomfortable now.

"Yeah? You're not supposed to have caffeine, though." Med school's been good for something, at least. Also, he's not entirely convinced she'd ever really liked coffee when she drank it with him. And he feels like a little bit of an asshole for knocking up someone who's not even old enough to like coffee. Moving on:

"Or hot chocolate. I'm impressed they actually sell it in L.A., so..." She shrugs.

What's he supposed to say? "Hot chocolate would be good."

While she's filling a pot with water to heat, he notices the magnetic alphabet letters on her refrigerator. All haphazard - a green L upside down and masquerading as a 7, two S's back-to-back, one in the wrong direction - except for one word: DAVID.

And he's not exactly sure how it happens, but somehow they end up on her couch watching this surprisingly creepy old musical. It's been years since he's last seen it. They stay on opposite sides of the couch, though, and as they drink their hot chocolate, Juliet opens a packet of onesies from the baby store, unfolding one with a little palm tree on the chest and staring at it for a long time.

Halfway through the movie, right before the townspeople trick Barnaby into marrying Stanley Dum, Jack calls for takeout. They eat Pad Thai and spring rolls, Juliet looking everywhere but at him. They don't talk much, and he's not sure what to say because every potential interaction he runs through in his head seems akin to navigating a minefield.

When he's leaving, though, she looks up at him, a serious and appraising gaze like she's trying to weigh out her words down to the quarter ounce. "What time should I be ready on Christmas?"

Relief washes over Jack, that she's willing to spend more time with him, that she's willing to give in a little, that he's not going to leave her alone on Christmas. Of course, that relief is immediately tempered by the realization that he's going to have to spend the entire day with Juliet and his _parents_ in the same place.

"Eleven," he says, and hopes he's not making a huge mistake.


End file.
